


lines and waves

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Martin is thinking about Peter Lukas’ offer. He doesn’t want to be thinking about his offer, to entertain him like that, but the longer Jon keeps lying there, and the worse things get in the Archives, the more he considers it.But now isn’t the time to think about that. He’s visiting Jon. Thinking about Peter when he’s visiting Jon is-- no.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 110





	lines and waves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dead and gone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940197) by [Aryashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryashi/pseuds/Aryashi). 



Martin is thinking about Peter Lukas’ offer. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to be thinking about his offer, to entertain him like that, but the longer Jon keeps lying there, and the worse things get in the Archives, the more he considers it. 

But now isn’t the time to think about that. He’s visiting Jon. Thinking about Peter when he’s visiting Jon is-- no. 

He says hello to Janice, and smiles at her, even though he hasn’t actually felt like smiling for months now. It’s nice though, to be smiled back at for once. Melanie and Basira don’t really do that any longer. Peter’s smiles don’t count; he barely ever stops. 

Jon doesn’t smile at all. Maybe he would, if he was awake. Smile back at him. 

Martin goes up to Jon’s room. As usual, he doesn’t look like he’s asleep. Martin’s caught Jon asleep before, arms crossed at his desk, a furrow between his brows even while sleeping, occasionally mumbling indistinctly. He’s shaken him awake, so he won’t get a crick in his neck, and it had always been easy to do so. Jon would blink bleary, sleepy eyes at him and Martin would gently explain that he’d caught him sleeping, and would he please just go and take a nap on the cot for a bit. 

Jon doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. He looks like a corpse. He’s not, though. Look at the machines. Look at the lines and waves. That’s Jon. He’s still in there. Just… buried deep down, where Martin can’t shake him awake. 

He takes his customary seat by the bed. He smiles. Jon doesn’t smile back. 

“Hi,” he says. “It’s nice to see you, Jon. Um, not much has happened since I last came here. Basira’s gone off again, she wouldn’t say where. Melanie…” 

He goes on like that, telling Jon about his day like it’s vital information that will sink in at all. Like it’ll reach him. He has a book with him for when the sparse small talk runs out, tucked away in his jacket. Keats. The idle, silly hope is that Jon will be so annoyed that he’ll snap awake just so tell him to stop reading. 

Martin wants to reach out towards Jon, just to confirm that he’s there, he’s real, he’s alive. But that’s a bad idea. There won’t be any reassuring pulse, if he checks. His skin will be cold in a way no living person would ever be. It won’t be reassuring. It won’t confirm anything. He just won’t be able to shake the feeling of cold, dead flesh for the rest of the day. 

He just has to look at the lines and waves, moving across the dark screens, and trust that Jon’s there, and he’s alive. Just asleep. 

“I…” he says, and he trails off from the forced casual, cheery tones of small talk, of catching up. He looks at Jon’s still face. No furrow between his brows. Just blank. 

He knows that this is stupid. That it doesn’t work. He’s tried it before. Of  _ course _ it doesn’t work. 

He still tries to call his mum sometimes though, even though he knows she won’t pick up. 

“Jon,” he says, quiet, hushed, and he puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He can’t feel any body warmth through the scrubs. He raises his voice a little, and jostles Jon gently. “Time to wake up.” 

Not even a flicker of the eyelids. 

“Jon, please,” he says. Shakes him again. “You have to wake up now.” 

Nothing. 

“Jon,” he says, and his voice breaks, which is so _ stupid. _ He knows this isn’t going to work. It never does. It shouldn’t still be getting to him. “Please. For me.” 

He continues not to move. 

Martin takes a long moment. When he’s done, he wipes at his face and makes himself give a watery, self deprecating chuckle. He’s really tired of crying. Of hurting. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I keep trying that. I know it’s dumb.” 

Jon doesn’t respond. Martin looks towards the lines and waves, because they show that Jon  _ is _ here, even if--

The lines are flat, still. He blinks, and stares at them for a long moment. 

Are they broken? Frozen? 

But no, the clock at the corner of the screen rolls over to a new minute and he realizes-- 

“No,” he says, a panic as cold and bottomless as the ocean beginning to open up in the pit of his stomach. “No no no no  _ Jon, _ that’s not what I asked for, that’s not what I wanted. Don’t--!” 

He clutches at the collar of Jon’s scrubs, twists it in his fist. Like he’s threatening him. 

“St-- stop that  _ right now,” _ he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Jon! G-- get back here, I don’t-- you _ can’t do this!  _ You can’t _ leave!”  _

It’s just as effective as shouting at Jon has been for the last three months now. 

He didn’t even get to reading him those poems he hates so much--

He shakes him once, hard. No resistance, just limp flesh. It’s like moving a ragdoll, a scarecrow. Ungainly, but not heavy. 

Before he can think about it, he slaps him in the face, hard. 

Nothing. He looks at the lines and waves. They don’t move. 

That’s not fair, he thinks distantly, wildly. That can’t possibly be fair. Jon can’t have been meant to cling onto impossible life for three months only to  _ die, _ just like Tim, just like Sasha. There wasn’t even anything different about today. There should’ve been something different, something he did wrong to make this happen, but there’s nothing. 

“If there’s anything I can do to get you to wake up,” he says,  _ “anything, _ I’ll do it, I swear. Anything. Please.” 

There’s not a single sound inside of this room but Martin’s own breathing, which is growing louder, unsteadier, with each passing moment of more nothing. 

It’s not fair that Jon dies if Martin is willing to do anything to keep him alive. He should be given a  _ chance _ to do that anything, right? How exactly was he supposed to have stopped this? It’s not fair. 

He closes his eyes. Tears are running down his face, and he can feel himself  _ shaking,  _ but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He leans down and says in a trembling voice, quiet enough to suit gently waking someone up from a deep sleep, “Please. Now. Wake up now.” 

He waits. He waits, and waits, and waits. 

Eventually, fog creeps in underneath the closed door. By the time Peter appears, Martin is ready,  _ desperate, _ for everything to just go cold and numb. 


End file.
